


avoir le cœur sur la main

by purewanderlust



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, First Kiss, Fluff, Living Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Mutual Pining, Sharing Clothes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-30
Updated: 2018-03-30
Packaged: 2019-04-14 20:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14143467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purewanderlust/pseuds/purewanderlust
Summary: "Really, the whole thing is Combeferre's fault."Grantaire is staying with Combeferre and Enjolras while he looks for a new place to live. There's a laundry mishap that brings some interesting information to light.





	avoir le cœur sur la main

**Author's Note:**

> "Avoir le cœur sur la main" translated literally means "to have the heart on the hand," but it's comparable to "giving the shirt off one's back." 
> 
> I have no idea where this came from; I just really wanted to see Enjolras in Grantaire's hoodie.

Grantaire's been sleeping in Combeferre's bed for two and a half weeks when it happens.

God no, not like  _ that _ . He's been sharing Ferre's extremely comfortable imported mattress in a completely platonic context, nothing more. Grantaire wonders if maybe a misunderstanding of the situation is why Courfeyrac keeps looking at him like a kicked puppy lately. If that’s the case, they’re definitely going to have A Conversation, because god knows there’s enough miscommunication happening in whatever weird non-thing Courf and Combeferre have going on, and that’s without an imagined hook-up between Grantaire and Ferre. The idea is honestly laughable--Combeferre is incredible and Grantaire decidedly  _ not _ \--but Courfeyrac is in love. Grantaire knows, perhaps better than anyone, how love can make you completely unreasonable. Still, he doesn’t want to accidentally keep them apart for any longer than they’ve already done to themselves. They are perfect for each other, two halves of the same whole. It baffles the mind that they haven’t figured it out yet, despite their equally brilliant minds.

But Grantaire is getting off track. He’s trying to figure out what got him to this point, and his platonic bedmate’s love life doesn’t really have anything to do with it. 

Three weeks ago, Grantaire’s landlord came banging on the door of his tiny, shitty flat, an eviction notice in hand. Other tenants had complained, he claimed, about the paint smell and the noise, and Grantaire had 24 hours to pack his things and get out. The complaint was probably fabricated; the landlord had had it out for him since the drunken screaming match he’d gotten into with Enjolras in the hallway a month prior. He wasn’t surprised, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t damned inconvenient. Fortunately, his art and supplies were at his rented studio space across town. He didn’t have much else of value, so he shoved all his clothes into a backpack, grabbed his guitar, and the jewelry box his grandmother had left him, and abandoned the worn-down furniture. Let fucking Pelletier deal with hauling them out, if he was so anxious to have Grantaire gone. The walk to the studio seemed much longer than usual, weighed down with his bags and worry about what he was going to do next.

Two weeks and five days ago, Combeferre had figured out that Grantaire was sleeping in his studio space. He’d spotted Grantaire coming into a meeting late and cornered him by the bathroom. It had the feeling of something planned, and Grantaire automatically looked around for an escape.

  
“Hey, is everything okay?”

  
Grantaire grinned even though his chest was still tight with anxiety and he couldn’t ever seem to get warm. The studio was nice enough for its purpose, but cheap and unheated. Even with a sleeping bag and layers upon layers of clothes, the concrete floor of an art studio wasn’t an ideal bed, especially mid-March. “Peachy.” 

Combeferre’s eyes flicked down to Grantaire’s trembling fingers. He shoved them into his pockets. “R, what’s going on?” His dark eyes were concerned and his voice was unbelievably gentle. Grantaire felt calmer just looking at him. His eyes started to water and he scrubbed a hand over his face impatiently. Combeferre put a hand on his elbow, just the barest touch of comfort, and he caved.

“I got kicked out of my apartment,” he blurted. “Just kind of stressed trying to find a new place.”

“Where are you staying now?” Ferre’s brow furrowed and Grantaire swore under his breath.    
  
“The studio.” 

“Grantaire! Are you saying you’re homeless?” 

“Shhh!” he hissed, flicking a glance over Combeferre’s shoulder at Enjolras. The only thing that could possibly make this situation worse was Enjolras hearing and adopting Grantaire as his new pet cause. “I’m making due.”   
  


“Why didn’t you ask one of us for help?” Combeferre demanded, but at least he’d lowered his voice. 

Grantaire dropped his gaze to the floor, scuffing his toe on the tile. “Didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. Jehan’s place is even smaller than mine was, Ep’s got the kids. Everybody’s got their own shit to deal with.”

Combeferre’s mouth thinned out. “Enjolras and I have plenty of room. You can stay with us. At least until you can find a place of your own.” His tone brooked no argument, so Grantaire sighed and nodded, knowing he wasn’t going to get out of it. Ferre herded him back towards the tables and he went to his usual spot in the corner. He was too tired to freak out about living under the same roof as Enjolras, even on a temporary basis, so he just ordered a drink and hunkered down to listen to his selfsame Apollo rant about some new legislation that was victimizing the poorest people in the city.

He was afraid that Combeferre would rat him out when he explained the situation to Enjolras, that he would tell his roommate that poor R was homeless. Grantaire didn’t think he could take it, that fire and fury, or worse,  _ sympathy _ on his behalf because he was suddenly one of the impoverished masses. Enjolras could barely stand him on a good day, it would ring hollow no matter how much he believed himself to care. 

There was nothing to worry about. When the meeting ended, Combeferre just scooped up his bag, glanced at Enjolras and said “R’s staying over tonight,” heedless of the confusion in his roommate’s expression. Courfeyrac had overheard and his face had fallen and shit, yeah, Grantaire was really going to have to talk to him. 

One night had turned into two, two into five, and before Grantaire knew it, he’d been staying with Combeferre and Enjolras for almost three weeks. He’d gotten used to the quiet, studious atmosphere and learned that the first person up was responsible for starting the coffee pot. If Enjolras had wondered at Grantaire’s continued presence in his home, he never asked Ferre while he was in earshot. They had been getting along strangely well. At home, Enjolras seemed more quiet and withdrawn, spending a lot of time holed up in his room. When they did happen to end up in common spaces together, he would make stiltedly polite conversation if engaged, but he never initiated it. Grantaire sometimes caught Enjolras looking at him like he was causing him physical pain, but they hadn’t had a single fight the whole time he’d been staying, so he wasn’t entirely sure what it was about. He tried to be as inoffensive and unobtrusive as possible, knowing that he’d already infringed on Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s hospitality for too long.

The night before The Incident, as Grantaire is already calling it in his mind, Combeferre had decided to do laundry. He hadn’t had enough for a full load on his own, so he took Enjolras’ and Grantaire’s too, throwing them all in together. Grantaire took a moment to thank the gods that he didn’t wear much white, because Enjolras’ red-dominant wardrobe was bound to dye something, and then he promptly forgot about it. The weird domesticity was comforting, in a way. Grantaire tried not to think too hard about that.

He was the first one up on the morning of The Incident, and that was strange, too. Both Ferre and Enjolras were early-birds, but he’d left Combeferre with his head buried under a pillow, and Enjolras was nowhere to be seen. The apartment was strangely silent as Grantaire padded into the kitchen. He made a pot of coffee and poured himself a cup. He was feeling inspired and energetic in a way he wasn't often accustomed to, so he decided to take advantage of it before it slipped away. Grantaire was dressed and out the door before either of his temporary roommates had even begun to stir.

It was a good day, and Grantaire relished it. He didn't exactly have a lot of good days. He took full advantage, working in the studio to finish a pair of commissions early, and then to start on a personal project; a painting for Jehan's upcoming birthday. He worked through lunch and would've probably been late to the meeting if not for his phone chiming with a message from Eponine, asking if she should order him something from the bar. He declined and made quick work of packing up before heading over to the Musain in the gathering twilight.

Grantaire was in high spirits as he climbed the stairs to the meeting room. He flung open the door and immediately stopped dead in his tracks.

Enjolras was standing, half bent over the table at the front of the room, scribbling something into his notebook. One of his golden curls was falling in his face. He was wearing Grantaire's favorite green hoodie. When he heard the door open, he glanced up and their eyes met.

“You're wearing my hoodie,” Grantaire said stupidly, taking a few more uncertain steps into the room and letting the door swing shut behind him. He wanted it to sound chiding, but he feared it had come out almost awed. 

Enjolras’ face flushed a brilliant shade of pink, made even more obvious by the dark green of the sweater against his skin. Grantaire wanted to put his hands all over him. “It was an accident! The light in the hallway is burned out, so I just reached into the dryer and grabbed the first thing that felt like my red hoodie!” 

“You couldn't tell when you put it on the it was the wrong one?” Grantaire managed. Enjolras was shorter than him, and slimmer, so the sleeves came down over his knuckles and the baggy torso practically swallowed him. He looked ridiculously young. Grantaire felt a familiar pang of affection and shook his head. 

“I was running late and I didn't have coffee this morning, I was a little out of it.” Enjolras snapped defensively.

“A lot out of it, by the sounds of things,” Grantaire replied with a shit-eating-grin. It was easier to mock Enjolras than to think anymore about the fact that he was wearing Grantaire's goddamn clothes in public. And shit, their friends would arrive any moment and they would all misconstrue the situation and…

Enjolras must've seen the look on his face because his fingers closed around the hem of the sweater and he went to pull it over his head.

“No, wait, don't take it off!” It took Grantaire a moment to realize that he had actually spoken out loud. Enjolras froze, blinking at him.

“Why not?”

Grantaire's mouth was apparently determined to act without any input from his brain. He blurted out: “It looks good on you. I’m--I mean, I like it.” His face burned. Oh God, he was never going to live this down.

Enjolras’ expression did a series of acrobatics, finally landing on the disapproving glare Grantaire knew so well. His ears were pink. “You really think that's an appropriate thing to say to me?”

Grantaire had never been so mortified in his life. “N--no, of course not, I'm--”

“Combeferre is my best friend,” Enjolras continued, clearly gearing up for a full-blown rant. “And even if he weren't, how do you think it would make him feel to know you were going around paying compliments like that to other people?”

“Uh, I don't think he’d care?” Grantaire said, bewildered. “What's he got to do with anything?”

Enjolras made a noise like an angry cat. His blue eyes were blazing as he stomped up to Grantaire and  jabbed a finger in the center of his chest. “I really didn't think you capable of this kind of cruelty, Grantaire. Do you really think that Ferre considers your relationship casual?  _ Especially  _ after he asked you to move in with him?”

Grantaire stared at him. He couldn't help it; he started to laugh. “Apollo, Combeferre and I are  _ not  _ dating!”

Enjolras opened his mouth, probably to start arguing again, but at that moment the door burst open and Bahorel galloped into the room, carrying Jehan piggyback. Eponine was immediately behind them, laughing at their antics. She spotted Enjolras and Grantaire standing inches apart, both red-faced and quiet, and her laughter died away, eyes narrowing. Jehan and Bahorel didn't seem to notice the tension, but Grantaire knew it wouldn't last. He took the opportunity to escape the back table, Eponine instinctively stepping in and flanking him. As soon as he dropped into his chair, she pushed her drink towards him. Grantaire downed it, the last of his good feelings draining away with the cheap vodka. 

“Dude,” Eponine said in an undertone, “Is Enjolras wearing your hoodie?”

“I really don’t want to talk about it,” Grantaire moaned. He put his head down on the table and prayed to whatever deities might be out there that the meeting would go quickly so he could rush home and get drunk.

  
Then he remembered that he didn’t have a home and that he would be going back to the same place as Enjolras. “Fuck. Ep, can I stay with you tonight?”

To her credit, Eponine didn’t ask any questions, even though she had to be dying to know what the hell was going on. “Sure, as long as you don’t talk during  _ Orange is the New Black. _ ”

“Grantaire, can I speak with you for a moment?” Enjolras’ voice from behind him made Grantaire jump and he swiveled in his chair to see the speaker standing over the table, somehow managing to look godlike even in the ratty oversized sweater that he was  _ still  _ wearing. The universe really had it out for Grantaire today.

He sighed. “What is it, Apollo?”

Enjolras’ lips flattened into a thin line and his eyes darted to Eponine, who was watching silently. “In private?”

“Don’t you have a meeting to run?”

“Courfeyrac has it handled. Please, R?”

Grantaire thought about telling him that he could just go ahead and say his piece, but he had really already had enough humiliation for the day. Besides, Enjolras had said  _ please _ . He would’ve done anything. “Fine.” He shoved out of his chair and followed Enjolras across the room and down the stairs, pretending like he couldn’t feel the eyes of all of their friends following them.

Enjolras led him out of the cafe and to the narrow alleyway to the side of the building. Grantaire leaned against the wall, feeling the bricks digging into his shoulder blades. He watched as Enjolras started to pace, looking for all the world like a wild young lion. “What exactly did you want to talk about, Apollo?”

“Stop calling me that,” Enjolras said reflexively, but at least he’d stopped pacing. Grantaire raised an eyebrow. There was a long moment of silence. Enjolras crossed his arms, uncrossed them, and then shoved them into the pocket of the hoodie. Even though Enjolras was clearly furious with him, Grantaire couldn’t help staring. Angry Enjolras was hot. Angry Enjolras wearing Grantaire’s clothes was almost too much for him to take. Finally, Enjolras cleared his throat and looked him in the eye. “You are not dating Combeferre?”

Grantaire heaved a sigh. “No, Enjolras, I am definitely not dating Ferre.”

Enjolras nodded and then dropped his gaze back to his sneakers. He wound one finger around the hood strings, looking almost anxious. It was freaking Grantaire out, how unlike himself Enjolras was acting. “Do you want to be?”

“Do I want to be what?” Grantaire asked, nonplussed. 

Enjolras frowned. “Are you being deliberately obtuse?” He demanded crossly. “Do you want to be dating Ferre?”

What Grantaire  _ really  _ wanted was to laugh at such a patently absurd question, but the expression on Enjolras’ face told him it would be very unwise. “No, I don’t feel that way about him.”

“Then why are you staying with us?” Enjolras cried, clearly having used up his small reservoir of patience. Even though he knew Enjolras didn’t mean it like that, it still hurt. Grantaire winced, almost without realizing. “Not that I don’t want you there, I just thought…”

“I’m homeless,” Grantaire interrupted, desperate to stop the panicked stream of words. He hadn’t wanted Enjolras to know, but he would rather spill the beans than hear Enjolras say he didn’t want Grantaire living in his flat. “My landlord kicked me out and Ferre offered me a place to stay until I found new lodging.”

“Oh.” Enjolras is quiet for a long moment. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped.”

Grantaire snorted. “I don’t want to be another one of your causes, Apollo.” 

Enjolras’ face contorted. “I don’t want to help because it’s a  _ cause _ , I want to help because you’re my friend!”

At that, Grantaire did laugh. “I’m your friend?” he repeated, “Are you serious right now?”

Hurt flashed across Enjolras’ expression, but he quickly hid it, his lip curling. “Do you not consider us friends?”

Grantaire gave him an incredulous look. “We fight constantly.”

“We debate,” Enjolras corrected, “and usually those arguments end up helping me to solidify my stances. I will admit that sometimes I get too...intense, but for the most part, I enjoy our discussions.”

Had there been hallucinogens in Eponine’s drink? There was no way Enjolras had just told him he liked arguing with him. “You don’t know anything about me!” he snapped, rather than trying to wrap his mind around it.

“I most certainly do!”   


“Like what?” Grantaire shot back, fully expecting to shut down the conversation. He should’ve known better. In all the years he’d known him, Enjolras had never backed down from a challenge.

“I know that your favorite color is sky blue, even though you wear a lot of green,” Enjolras replied. “I know you prefer red wine to white, and that Joly and Bossuet are your favorite drinking buddies. But I also know that when you’re having one of your dark days, you’d rather be with Eponine or Jehan.”

Grantaire opened his mouth to interject, but Enjolras barrelled on.

“I know you like oil paints over watercolors, and that Les Amis are your favorite subjects. I know that you paid Gavroche’s hospital bill when he got scarlet fever last winter. And I know that even though you don’t agree with a lot of my methods, you still want to help people too.”

“Wh--what?” Grantaire said weakly. “How do you know all that?”

“Because you’re my friend,” Enjolras answered quietly. Now that he’d run out of steam, he looked quite embarrassed by his tirade. “It’s important to me to know what’s important to the people I care about.”

“If you care about me, then how come you never talk to me?” Grantaire asked before he could think better of it. “I’ve been living in the same flat as you for almost a month and you’ve maybe said ten words to me.”

“Because I thought you were dating Combeferre,” Enjolras replied, which made no sense at all.

Grantaire shook his head. “I don’t understand what that has to do with anything!” 

“Don’t you get it?” Enjolras sighed, running a hand through his curls. “It’s because I was jealous.”

“Oh,” Grantaire breathed. His chest hurt. “Oh, I see. You’re in love with Combeferre?”

“Wait, what?” 

“That makes so much sense,” Grantaire said, “You’re both so great and you’ve known each other so long...but wait.” He frowned. “You know Ferre is in love with Courfeyrac, right?” 

Enjolras scowled at him. “Jesus Christ, R, I have never met anyone so oblivious in my life! I’m not in love with Ferre. I’m in love with you, you idiot!” As soon as the words left his mouth, all the color drained from Enjolras’ face and his jaw snapped shut with an audible click.

Grantaire couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe. Enjolras was looking at him and all he could do is look back. “Me?” he squeaked.

Enjolras grimaced. “I wasn’t going to tell you. The last thing I want is to make you uncomfortable. And since apparently you don’t even consider us friends, this is probably even more awkward. I’m sorry.” He pulled the sleeves of Grantaire’s hoodie over his hands, curling in on himself in a very un-Enjolraslike manner. That was what finally pulled Grantaire out of his daze and he took two steps forward and put his hands on Enjolras’ shoulders.   
  


“Hey, you don’t have to apologize.” Grantaire chuckled. He was positively giddy. This could not actually be happening to him.  “I honestly can’t believe you.”

Enjolras glared up at him. “What?” he challenged and Grantaire’s giggles exploded into full-blown laughter. Enjolras’ expression started to look genuinely hurt, so Grantaire took a breath and tried to calm down, even though his heart felt like it was beating against his ribs like a sparrow in a cage. 

“It’s just...you gave this full-blown romantic comedy monologue about all the things you know about me, and this whole time you haven’t realized the single worst-kept secret of my life.” He slid his hands up from Enjolras’ shoulders to the sides of his neck, cupping his face in his hands. “Enjolras, I’ve been in love with you since the moment I met you.”

Enjolras’ blue eyes widened and he said, in a tightly controlled voice: “I would very much like to kiss you right now.”

“ _ Please _ ,” said Grantaire. He couldn't even be embarrassed about how desperate he sounded because before he'd even finished speaking, Enjolras was surging forward to fit their mouths together like it was something he'd imagined a thousand times. He was as graceful in this as he was in everything else, rolling up onto his tiptoes and wrapping his arms around Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire kept his hands on Enjolras’ face, gently tipping his chin up to get a better angle and deepen the kiss. Enjolras made a pleased sound and licked his way into Grantaire’s mouth.

  
“Jesus Christ,” Grantaire said dazedly. He dropped his hands to Enjolras’ waist, fingers tightening in the fabric of his own sweater. “Is this real?”

Enjolras kissed him again, hard, backing Grantaire up against the wall. “It’s real, R, I promise this is real.” He pulled back and fixed Grantaire with his piercing blue eyes. “Trust me, okay? I love you.”

“This could be so bad,” Grantaire murmured, but he didn’t let go. “You know this could go really, really wrong.”

“Or it could go really, really well,” Enjolras retorted, stubborn as always. “It will. Just give me a chance to prove it to you.”

And really, how could Grantaire refuse him? He leaned down and kissed Enjolras again, winding their fingers together. “Fine. Prove it.”

The brilliant grin that lit up Enjolras’ face was a sight to behold. “Challenge accepted,” he said. He started to lean in for another kiss, but Grantaire stopped him, unable to resist one more joke.

“Remind me later to thank Combeferre for doing the laundry.”

 

When Enjolras kissed him again, Grantaire could feel his laughter all the way down to his toes.


End file.
